


Resolutions

by toast_ears



Category: Black Books
Genre: Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 02:35:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5522264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toast_ears/pseuds/toast_ears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bernard, Manny and Fran try to make resolutions for the New Year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Resolutions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Persiflager](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I hope you enjoy!

It was raining. Not a proper rain, more like a sort of rain than might turn into potentially actual rain at some point if things generally felt like being a bit damper, but conversely, it could just drizzle out with one last gentle plop and people would still hold one palm up to the sky to check as they left their house, before putting their umbrella back inside with an,

“Oh. It's stopped.”

It was half-arsed rain, which is important, because the half-arsed rain was falling directly onto a small part of London, just north of Holborn, in which a tiny book shop called Black Books was located. It just so happened that this very specific area of London radiated half-arsery in such a way that it felt possible that the term actually originated from there, although no one was quite sure if that was true. It had that effect on people though; one would be strolling purposefully through Kings Cross one minute, turn a corner and then in the next suddenly lose interest in moving in a direction all together, and perhaps meander into a tiny book shop instead (Note: interestingly, in 1645 a baker in Bloomsbury apparently went mad and exclaimed that a hag had hexed the area, rendering it, 'of less use than a privy without an arse hole'. He was sent to Bedlam hospital after many people declared that he was simply describing a chair. And that the hag was in fact his own wife. Still, coincidence? Possibly not).

The tiny bookshop into which you might meander was not incongruous in its location; it looked a little as though it had always been sat exactly where it was since the beginning of time, and that one day, probably some time around 1640, someone had simply stumbled across it, muttered, “Huh. S'Bloomsbury”, to themselves before laying plans for a building next door in an unmotivated sort of way. As such, Black Books bookshop had hunkered down on its tiny plot and allowed Bloomsbury to clutter into being around it, and passers by would either shuffle by in earnest or wander in, nervously surveying the peeling paint, the dirty windows, the musty piles of books and the faint smell of stale alcohol that malingered around the door.

Inside, in this seasonably indifferent place, on this notable sort of rainy-but-not-quite day, were three prone figures; one was lying on a once-green, lumpy looking old sofa, a pointy party hat poking haphazardly out from the left side of her head, whilst on the right side, her black, cropped hair stuck out in peaks and crofts like cat dropped in hair gel. She had a damp flannel laid gently over her face and was snoring in a way that can only be described as disturbing; the kind of snore that would make nice, young, self-aware people move nervously to a different part of a train. She had one arm flung out from her side and under the hand at the end of said arm lay a man with bunches in his hair, all tied up with shiny ribbons; the kind you'd use to wrap presents. He was face-up on the floor, parallel to the sofa, his surprisingly long bunches spilling out onto the floorboards like guinea pigs returning home. He also had a large pink cowboy hat over his face and was clutching a rubber chicken to his chest with one arm.

The third and final prone figure could hardly be seen behind a big desk that sat at the far end of the shop; two man-sized black leather boots, partly concealed by an enormous collection of empty and upended red wine bottles, sat on the far edge of the desk. It would have been fair to assume that these boots did in fact contain feet, as the soles were facing the front of the shop in such a way that could only be supported by attached legs.

The snoring lady stirred, the beginning of her snore converted into a snort of sudden consciousness, which in turn became a pained groan. The groan ended with one word floating damply out from under the flannel on her face,

“Mannnnyyy.”

There was no response from either the man with bunches on the floor or the pair of feet at the desk. So again, the flannel spoke, but this time with more urgency,

“Manny. MANNY.”

Two guinea pigs of hair lurched suddenly off the floor and into a sitting position, whilst the cowboy hat and rubber chicken fell, forgotten, onto a small pile of expended party poppers next to the sofa. The man with bunches, Manny, looked around with a bleary, red-eyed expression of slowly returning awareness,

“Wha...what. Wha's happening. What time is it.”

The woman on the sofa sought blindly with one hand for the flannel, found it, and pulled it off before turning her head to look at Manny with one eye screwed shut, as if in an effort to focus properly on him with the other eye,

“God. You look terrible.” she remarked, “like a school girl that's been magically turned into a wine-soaked middle-aged bloke in bunches.”

“Shut up, Fran." Manny replied huffily, unsuccessfully attempting to heave himself off the floor, before grabbing a nearby bookshelf to help him stand, “I gave you the sofa.”

“QUIET. EVERYONE BE QUIET.” the shoes at the desk shouted in a muffled, angry Irish accent, “MANNY, IS THAT YOU. WHY AM I IN A CAVE.”

“You're under your desk.” said Manny, shuffling slowly to face said desk. “You're lying on the floor.”

“ACK. WHY?! NO, NEVER MIND. MANNY, GET ME OUT OF HERE. I CAN'T SEE MY FACE.”

“Bernard, _calm_ down”, groaned Fran as she threw the party hat off her head and at the legs of Manny, “Go make us breakfast, would you Manny?”

Manny glared blearily out from under his bunches at Fran, turned slowly to look at the shoes on the desk (which were now vibrating with frustration) before looking back at Fran again.

“Fine.” he declared, stomping resolutely out of the room and into the kitchen, pausing only to glance disgustedly behind the desk, “but you have to get Bernard off the floor”.

With some effort, Fran pulled herself up into a sitting position on the sofa so that she was facing the shoes on the desk. She surveyed it with one eye open whilst swaying slightly on the spot.

“Geddup Bernard. Stop being an idiot.” And then, slightly more cheerfully, “it's New Year's Day!”

As if this was a cue and with an enormous thump, the shoes dropped from view behind the desk and moments later, an exceptionally grumpy-looking face with hair like a badger battling a hedge appeared.

“NO.” the grumpy-looking face shouted. “NO! I will NOT have those words in my shop! Don't make me throw my shoe at you!”

Then, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time, Bernard gazed at the wine bottle-based carnage on his desk, before casting his gaze further out to take in the after-party mess that was currently what was passing for the bookshop.

"This place is disgusting.” he declared, using what appeared to be a mannequin dressed in a hula skirt balanced next to the desk to heave himself upright.  
“I demand you all to clear up your mess and be gone. You all disgust me!”

“Oh come on, Bernard, cheer up," said Fran amiably, “New Years is a time for celebration! It's about fresh starts! Grasping life by it's horns! ...Or whatever.”

“What?!” Bernard glared at Fran, “You know I don't believe in starts and horns and all that bollocks. As far as I'm concerned, life is all toiling and mewling and trying not to get so pissed you die in a wheelie bin in a back alley covered in cat turds."

“Oh god, don't start.” Manny said, reappearing from the kitchen carrying three plates of scrambled eggs and bacon. He plonked one of the plates down onto the desk in front of Bernard, “Here. Eat your breakfast.”

Sulkily, Bernard sank obediently into his desk chair and pulled the plate towards him, as Manny deposited two more plates between empty wine bottles on the desk as Fran pulled up chairs.

“Well, I think it's good to take stock of the year, y'know?" Fran picked up her fork to dig in to Manny's cooked breakfast, “you think about all the things you achieved last year and you decide what you're going to try to achieve in the next. It's good for you! It's good for the SOUL.”

“Oh yes?” challenged Bernard, waving his knife at Fran, “and what HAVE you achieved this year, apart from repeatedly getting drunk and shouting innuendos at tramps?”

Fran sat up straight in her chair and fixed Bernard with what she obviously thought was an icy glare,

“I'll have you know that I managed to complete _every single one_  of my New Years resolutions this year.”

Manny, who up until this point had been attacking his bacon with a single-mindedness reserved only for the very hungover, snorted suddenly and looked up at Fran, grinning,

“What were your resolutions then? ’Drink more alcohol than what's considered scientifically possible’?”

Bernard laughed, “Ha! Was one, ’finally become a certified shrivelled-up old spinster’?”

“And was another, ’completely ruin a hen party and alienate all remaining friends'?”

Bernard and Manny snorted gleefully in shared amusement as Fran went red and glared daggers at them both,

“You two can laugh, but I bet I achieved much more than either of you this year!” She pointed a finger threateningly at Bernard's face, who immediately stopped chuckling to look bemusedly at the offending finger, “You." she said accusingly, “all you've achieved this year is to fail spectacularly at getting a girlfriend by deceiving _three_ poor old Russian men into thinking you were a virtuosic pianist, _which you're not. And_ you made the girl think you were a complete nutter. _Which you are_.”

Manny gave an involuntary snort and Fran immediately turned her accusingly wagging finger in his direction,

“And _you_. You managed to lock yourself in this shop for a whole night, got pissed on absinthe and _ate_  all the dead bees on the window sill!”

She glared triumphantly at them both, “I think that this year we should _all_ writeNew Years resolutions and then if you two _actually_  manage to stick to them, you can laugh all you like at me this time next year.”

There was a short silence around the desk as Bernard and Manny absorbed Fran's announcement.

“Balls.” declared Bernard, “I don't need any stupid resolutions. I'm a business owner. I have SCRUPLES.”

“You have scrambled egg in your hair,” observed Manny, peering at the side of Bernard's head.

“I wanted it there.” snarled Bernard, snatching at the side at his hair until he'd found the offending bit of egg, glared at it, then ate it.

“Right, we're doing it.” decided Fran, pulling a wine-stained notepad out from under the bottles on the desk and locating three pencils, before dealing out a piece of paper to each of them. “No arguments. You have to write down five resolutions for this year. And make it ones you'll actually stick to!”

“FIVE?!” Bernard glowered at Fran.

“Fine. _three_. Write _three_  things. I'm sure you can manage that.”

“What are the rules here?” asked Manny interestedly, “I mean, do they have to be _big_  things or can they be something small and achievable, like, ’I will take the bins out on time every Thursday', or 'I will not use the dirty bath water that Bernard left in the bath for three days to make his cups of tea with'?”

“WHAT?!” Bernard jerked in his seat to peer menacingly at Manny before turning accusingly to Fran, “This is stupid. I'm declaring this as STUPID. Look, it's easy: I'll do it now.' He dramatically picked up his pencil and begin scribbling angrily on his piece of paper, reciting as he wrote,

“ONE: Piss. TWO: Wank. THREE: Bollocks. There!” he thrust the piece of paper triumphantly back at Fran and sat back in his seat, arms crossed and looking smug.

For a moment, Fran simply stared levelly at Bernard before purposefully placing her hand on his piece of paper and firmly sliding it back to him.

“Noooo,” she said, “and if you refuse to take this seriously, Bernard, you're just going to have another _terrible_  year.”

“Don't curse me, you harpy!” Bernard tried to look hurt and victimised but just went a bit cross-eyed instead.

“No no, come on Bernard,” Manny interjected, “Fran's right, this might be _good_ for us all.” He turned to Fran, “I'm game!”

“Thank you, Manny” said Fran.

“FINE.” Bernard sulked. “I'll do your stupid resolutions. But I won't enjoy it and I hope all of yours FAIL.”

“That's the spirit!” murmured Manny idely, already leaning down to scribble on his own piece of paper. Bernard peered over at what he was writing,

“And I'll bet you're writing PROPER ones,” he said disgustedly, “I bet it's all, ’ooh! I'm Manny! I'm going to bring about world peace and I'm going to bake a cake and I'm going to become Queen of England with stupid long hair!’” He affected a high voice and bobbed his head about, making his scruffy hair bounce around his head like the mane of a drunk ferret. He twisted his face into an expression that strongly resembled one of those stuffed dolls that had been made to look happy but actually just looked deranged and pranced about behind Manny, flinging his arms around like they had independent lives and joys of their own,

“Weee!” He cried, “I'm going to make eggs and then have stupid hair! Weee!”

“Manny, I think he might have finally lost the plot,” said Fran conversationally as she watched Bernard leap about. Manny remained unperturbed,

“Ignore him. He's a child.” he said magnanimously, handing Fran his piece of paper, “here you go. Piece of cake.”

Bernard sat heavily back in his chair, sulkily scribbled something onto his own piece of paper and handed it to Fran.

“There you go then,” he paused, then added, “witch.”

Fran smirked at Bernard and snatched his paper from his hand,

“See? Wasn't hard, was it?” She looked down at Manny's offering first, “Right. So Manny, you're going to... Drink less caffeine, go for long walks and be kinder to yourself.”

“UGH.” Bernard flung himself around on his chair to face Manny, contempt written all over his self, “You're a sad, sad little man.”

Manny barely glanced at Bernard, apparently choosing the high road and instead turned back to Fran and said,

“Yes. I think I deserve some more ’me time’: long baths maybe; a gentle stroll in the park every now and again. I dunno, just doing things that involve less STRESS AND PAIN.” He leaned heavily upon his last words and stared pointedly at Bernard.

“I don't know what you mean, you ungrateful worm.” said Bernard dismissively, “I give you nothing but KINDNESS and LOVE... Now go and do the washing up before I dock your wages for a month.”

For a moment Manny looked pleadingly at Fran,

“But...”

“GO. NOW. SHOO.” Bernard brandished his dirty plate at him.

“Hang on!” Fran said, placing a hand on Manny's arm so that he wouldn't follow Bernard's orders, “we haven't gone through the rest.”

“Fine.” Bernard conceded, “but get on with it.”

“Right, well, I've written to ’learn tai chi’ -because I keep seeing people in the park doing it and it looks sort of nice and grassy - ’eat less carbs and... drink less.’”

Suddenly Bernard and Manny were fellow conspirators again; Manny let out a loud snort and Bernard emitted an enormous “HA!” at this unexpected revelation.

“You?!” Manny said, looking knowingly at Bernard then back at Fran, “Drink _less_? That's about as likely as... As a fart out the pope on a Sunday.”

“Yeah!” sneered Bernard, “if you manage to drink LESS alcohol this year, I'll... I'll EAT MANNY'S HAIR.”

Manny chuckled before his expression changed slowly to confusion, “What? No! Leave my hair alone!”

“Shut up, both of you!” said Fran, “I can and I will. I am a strong, independent woman...”

“Oh blah blah blah look, read mine so that I can get away from both of your tee-total, stupid-haired company and go and do something USEFUL and PRODUCTIVE with my day... Like drink more wine.”

“Fine.” Fran pouted, fishing Bernard's resolutions off the table. “What have you written then?”

Her eyes briefly scanned over Bernard's barely legible penmanship and then she sighed, a deep long sigh of the long-suffering, “Bernard, all you've written is, ’I am brilliant. Screw you all. Arse. Manny CLEAN UP, you upside-down mop with a face.’”

She looked up at Bernard's triumphant expression with a look of disdain, “Really, Bernard. Can't you take _anything_  seriously?"

Bernard stood up, “No. I can't. Now go on, Manny, clean up, or else I'll kick you onto your head and use your hair as a mop and YOU,” he took a cigarette out of a desk drawer and put it in his mouth whilst using the other hand to point vaguely at Fran, ’clear off. Go an and pie chi, or whatever rubbish you do and leave me to my excellent, non-resolution-needing life.”

He fished through his pocket and pulled out a party popper, something disturbingly furry and a mushroom, before finally coming across a lighter, which he used to light his cigarette, then glared accusingly around the room,

“There must be some spare booze around here somewhere. MANNY. BRING MORE WINE!”

“No! Get it yourself!” Came the muffled, indignant reply from somewhere deep in the recesses of the kitchen, where Manny was clearing up, “Drown yourself in it, for all I care! I am NOT your slave!”

Fran sighed heavily and hoisted her handbag over one shoulder,

“Happy bloody New Year...” She muttered gloomily to no one in particular, before trudging slightly unsteadily out of the shop and into the gentle, half-arsed rain of Bloomsbury, where another year was already clambering heavily into place.

"Happy bloody New Year, one and all.”


End file.
